


The Sun Has Risen, Let's Make War

by frith_in_thorns



Category: Discworld - Terry Pratchett
Genre: Adapting to new circumstances, Book: Monstrous Regiment, F/F, Post-Canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-22
Updated: 2016-10-22
Packaged: 2018-08-23 21:13:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,113
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8342962
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/frith_in_thorns/pseuds/frith_in_thorns
Summary: It's all about the mindset.





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [KLStarre](https://archiveofourown.org/users/KLStarre/gifts).



“I heard you were in your _office_ ,” Polly says, slouching against the door. She’s mastered the correct Sergeant’s Slouch by now: not so informal as to set a bad example to ones squad, not so formal as might bring down a higher-up’s ire.

Mal, possibly in reaction, lounges. It’s a lounge that’s in danger of unbalancing the chair. “You have something against my office?” As with the lounge, the tone is rather too studiously casual and pivoting on too fine a point.

“It’s very nice. Be better with a window.”

Mal snorts. “They’re probably afraid of me flying out if they gave me one. I don’t think they should be worried, since I did come to join them of my own accord. Twice.”

“Third time dead,” Polly says. 

“They say Third time lucky in Ankh-Morpork,” Mal tells her.

Polly snorts. She has a proper Sergeant’s Snort too, but that’s not the one she’s using – this is one of genuine irritation rather than the training-ground variety. “I don’t care in the slightest what they say in Ankh-Morpork.”

“You should,” Mal says. “Guess who’s had a formal diplomatic invitation to visit? From _His Grace Sir Samuel Vimes_ , no less.”

Polly stares blankly. “Why?”

“No idea. Guess you’re still flavour of the month.”

“It is,” Polly points out, “a little disturbing when you use expressions like that. Being a vampire and everything.”

Mal grins. Her coffee bean necklace has been rubbed by her skin to enough of a shine to catch the light. “You haven’t said it yet,” she says. “It must be killing you.”

Polly glares, but Mal has always seemed immune to those tactics. “Fine,” she says. “Congratulations. Lieutenant.”

Mal stretches out her shoulders like a satisfied cat. “Don’t get jealous,” she cautions.

Polly snorts again, and it _is _the sergeant’s variety this time. “Jealous? That you’ve turned into a bloody Rupert? Not likely.”__

__“Not likely _Sir_ ,” Mal corrects her, usual faintly-smug grin sidling back onto her face as if it had never been anxiously waiting in a corner somewhere. She waits a beat, and rolls her eyes at Polly’s non-response. “How are your ducklings getting on?”_ _

__“Stop calling my squad that,” Polly says. They’ve very serious, her little lads, anxious to impress her – all her lessons on mentoring are from Jackrum and his school of shouting, but that hasn’t dented their eagerness. (She feels like perhaps it should have, but then again she can only judge by her own experiences.)_ _

__It _does_ annoy her, though, how half the fort calls them her ducklings. With her as the mother duck in skirts, presumably. She just wants to finally – finally! – be taken seriously, and it seems like there’s always going to be yet another thing by which the men (and… others) around her can keep reminding themselves that she’s _different_. But at least her squad doesn’t seem to be suffering for her being the one leading it. When Private Hannah “Nasher” Oates tripped Corporal Morris to the floor and then stomped on his fingers during bayonet practice she got as rousing a cheer as any man there would have from the assembled spectators, to Polly’s considerable satisfaction (which she of course hadn’t allowed to be _too_ much on display – she’d shouted at Hannah for the state of her uniform, and received one of the biggest grins of her life in return). _ _

__Mal flows smoothly from her casual lounge to an equally casual standing stance. It’s a good job she’s an officer now, really – it was a matter of time before someone pulled her up for insubordination. Ruperts, in their maddening way, seem to have some protection from that._ _

__“Poll,” Mal says, and her eyes aren’t casual at all. “Do you feel differently now I’m an officer? Tell me the truth, please.”_ _

__Does she? Polly’s used to making instant decisions, but it would be a mistake to answer this too quickly. She owes Mal proper consideration of her feelings. “I thought you’d come back to the squad after you’d finished your post here,” she says. “That’s not going to happen now, is it?”_ _

__Mal shrugs, and shakes her head. “Certainly not as corporal. One day I might come back as your Blouse.” She makes a lazy gesture with her hand. “Unless someone promotes _you_.”_ _

__“Not likely,” Polly says. “Just look at the company I keep.”_ _

__Mal grins, and she’s visibly winding up another clever remark, but Polly’s suddenly bored with this sidestepping. “I don’t intend to change my company,” she adds, before Mal can open her mouth._ _

__She’s watching for the emotion, otherwise she might have missed the flash of relief. “Obviously you can’t resist me,” Mal says, like she was never anxious at all._ _

__It’s been over two months since all of Mal’s sharp angles were last pressed against Polly like this. She still half-expects to cut her mouth on the edges of Mal’s tongue. Every time they come together it’s a battle fought between their bodies, with kisses like artillery fire. It’s lucky she was raised in the Borogravian tradition of endless war, otherwise she might not appreciate it as she does. “You missed me,” she challenges, when she remembers to speak._ _

__“So you say.”_ _

__“So I do say, _Sir_.”_ _

__“Are your ducklings about to come looking for you?” Mal asks, a few minutes later._ _

__“Good luck to them finding this office. I’d commend them for their navigational skills based on that alone.”_ _

__The battle was an eventual draw, one considered a victory by both sides. It was lucky that the walls of the fort were very old and made of stone, and therefore very thick._ _

__“You should take up Duke Vimes’s invitation,” Mal said._ _

__Polly took her weight onto her elbows. “Really? That’s what you’ve been thinking about?”_ _

__“I’ll come with you,” Mal said._ _

__“What’s your ulterior motive?”_ _

__“Sometimes I really think you don’t yet have this sergeanting business down, Poll,” Mal told her. “You can’t go around asking about things like _ulterior motive_. Just shout for a while about how Ankh-Morpork is a scurrilous pit of fleas and rabid ferrets.”_ _

__“I’m pretty sure that’s actually true.”_ _

__“So am I, but that’s not the point. We’ve both talked about the future of our stupid little country for long enough. It’s only a matter of time until we get attacked again in earnest. Let’s do something first. Attack politically.”_ _

__“What, us?” Polly asked. She would be sceptical enough at the picture they made even if they had both been wearing all their clothes._ _

__Mal shrugged. “It worked before, didn’t it? Come on, Sergeant Perks. Once more into the breach with your dashing Rupert. Come and fight with me.”_ _

__Well, it was already a habit._ _


End file.
